


A Modern Wizards Guide To: Taking The First Step

by ChaotiChimera



Series: A Modern Wizards Guide [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Coping, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Know The Tags Sound Bad But It's Nicer Than It Sounds, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Magic, My First AO3 Post, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Wizards, idk how to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 14:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaotiChimera/pseuds/ChaotiChimera
Summary: Defense Mechanism1: An often unconscious mental process that makes possible compromise solutions to personal problems.2: A defensive reaction by an organism.Mana1: The power of the elemental forces of nature embodied in an object or person





	A Modern Wizards Guide To: Taking The First Step

Everything hurt.

His legs, from running nonstop for a good five miles. His face, left eye already swelling shut, as skin began to stain a dark purple in color. His heart, pounding against his rib cage, though feeling as if it had been torn in two. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Every part of him hurt.

Every part of him burned. 

The type of pain that only gets worse over time, scorching you over with blistering welts, injuries that just seem to boil from within, and feel as though they'll never heal.

Of all the injuries he'd ever experienced, he had always hated burns the most.

His sister always said that he reminded her of fire. Dressed in shades of red, orange hair dyed with blonde tips, giving off warmth and light in the darkest of times.

He never really got the analogy. To him, fire wasn't warmth. Fire was pain. Great plumes of roaring flames, scorching away everything in it's path. Good, bad, new, old, living, dead, fire burns away the world around it, turning everything to ash and dust. An unstoppable force of destruction, torrid flames indifferent to the pain they cause, burning away the world, sizzling away lives, blistering heat broiling flesh and searing pain-

  

He hated this. He hated it so much when this happened.

"GET OUT OF MY WAY YOU LITTLE FUCK!"

He refused to move. Unwavering as he glared down the older man, arms spread out slightly to shield the woman behind him.

"DON'TALK T'HIM LIKE THAT!"

The shrill voice behind him screeched, slurring heavily.

"Oh, like WHAT?! What the FUCK does he even DO around here?? HUH?! HE DOESN'T DO SHIT!!"

"YESH HE DOES!"

The mans cruel laughter at that echoed throughout the house, hitting him like a physical blow. 

He tried. He knew full well he was a useless waste of space. But he tried.

"And I can't believe you're actually hiding your drunk ass behind him after bitching and screaming at him all day!"

Memories flashed through his head from earlier. Drunken slurs about how horrible he was, a greedy, selfish little brat. How they didn't HAVE to 'take him in' and let him stay there, and how he was an adult now and just needed to 'get over' his mental problems already.

The taste of iron filled his mouth, breaking the skin inside his cheek as he bit down, trying not to sob.

Not in front of them.

"Just leave her alone, plea-"

"SHUT UP!"

"YOOU SHUT UP!!"

He hated this. Nails biting into the skin of his palms as they screamed at one another.

He just wanted it to stop.

"NO!"

"WHY DO I HAVE T'SHUT UP AN YOU DON'T?!"

"I WORK!!"

He just wanted it to stop.

"BARELY! ALL YOOU DO NOW ISH SPEND ALL THE MONEY ON BEER!!"

"AND ALL YOU DO IS SPEND ALL MY MONEY ON BEER AND SIT AROUND ON YOUR ASS ALL DAY! YOU DON'T DO SHIT FOR ME ANYMORE!!"

He just wanted it to STOP.

"Well at leAST I DIDN'T CHEAT ON YOU!"

He Just Wanted It To-

CRACK

"ALIX-!!"

He barely registered her scream, or the sound of the full, unopened beer can striking him in the face. He barely even registered the pain at first. Head snapping to the side from the force of the blow. 

The world suddenly seemed to be in slow motion. Or was it that he had suddenly sped up? The world spinning at a much slower speed while he alone stood unaffected? That couldn't be it, though, because if anything it felt like the world was going too fast. Spinning him around like he was in a blender, while everyone else was stuck in slow motion, and it was so HOT too. A sweltering wave of heat enveloping him, as though he was suddenly thrown into a oven. The edges of his vision going black as the world spun.

Heat.

It suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't breathing. How long had it been since he last took a breath? It felt as though it had been hours, but that couldn't be right, could it? Why wasn't he breathing? He needed to breathe, he NEEDED to BREATHE! He forced himself to go through the motions, lungs expanding in his chest as he gasped in a choked, ragged breath.

Oxygen.

It was then that the pain suddenly caught up with him. Like a cat that allowed a mouse to run, allowed it to think things were going to be okay, before tackling down at the last second snapping its spine and bashing it's face in with a beer can. Wait, no, that wasn't something cats did. Waves of pain blossomed across his head like some type of sick, invisible flowers, wrapping their vines around his skull, and digging roots throughout his brain, as agonizing flowers unfurled and spread across his head. 

Fuel.

His thoughts were foggy and muddled, making it difficult for him to focus. He needed to focus. But focus on what though? What did he need to focus on? He choked in another ragged breath. Breathing was important. It meant he was okay. If he was breathing then he was okay. He focused on that, choking in rapid, struggled breaths. If he was breathing then he was okay. And he was still breathing. He was still breathing.

He vaguely registered everything suddenly combusting into flames, a blaze coating every surface of the room, and painting everything in shades of red and orange. He stared at it, wondering where it came from, though too focused on breathing to give it much thought. He was still breathing, so he was okay. He was still breathing. 

"WHAT THE FUCK?!?"

He was still breathing. He was still breathing. He was still-

"ALIX!!!"

  

He didn't mean to.

He didn't mean to do whatever it was he did.

He had managed to reign... it, whatever it was, back in time. The apartment was left smoking, and their hair and clothes looks kinda singed, but nobody was hurt though. 

Nobody got hurt.

It was fine.

Right?

...

Oh crap oh crap oh CRAP what the FUCK HAPPENED?!

What had he done what had he- HOW had he- How the fuck did- WHAT HAPPENED??! That couldn't have been him there's just no way there's no logical way that HE could've been the cause of that. Plain and simple. He didn't even lift a finger so there's no way he was the one responsible for that fire. There's no fucking way. It's impossible. 

It's impossible. 

IT'S IMPOSSIBLE. 

Though some small part of him, buried deep away under the anxiety and denial, whispers to him.

It's not impossible.

He felt sick. His stomach churning as he chokes on his sobs. What was he? What the fuck was WRONG with him?? Had- Had he just WILLED that to happen or something? He didn't want to hurt anyone, he didn't WANT to set things on fire. But what if this meant that some part of him deep down DID want to or something? His anxiety coiled tighter around his head and heart, offering up horrifying thoughts that he didn't want to even consider. 

There was something wrong with him.

He must have snapped in some way.

Some dark part of him must have wanted to burn things apparently. 

He really was a bad person.

He cried harder, choking on his sobs with each attempt to inhale. He fucked up. He fucked everything up just like how he always did, ruining everything he touches, unable to do anything right. He always just fucked everything up for everyone. He didn't mean to, he tried he tried so hard but he always just ruined everything like the worthless little burden he was. He didn't mean to. He didn't mean to though he didn't mean to be such a fuckup he didn't mean to become such a broken worthless person he didn't mean to do anything wrong. He didn't mean to he didn't mean to he didn't mean-

"Oh, shit- Are you okay??"

At the sound of the voice, he snapped back to himself. 

Stop. Breathe. Blink.

He was in the back of an alleyway, sitting on the filthy concrete and leaning heavily against a dumpster. His legs were tucked tightly against his chest, and his red hoodie pulled up over his head. He remembered, he had run down the alley when exhaustion caught up with him, what he didn't remember though was how long he had been there, or when exactly he had started pulling at his hair. His hands brought up under his hood, gripping painfully at his undercut, with his arms pulled up in front of his face. Peeking out from behind his arms and hood, he could see a small portion of the ground in front of himself. Dirty greasy concrete, a few small pieces of garbage here and there, and roughly about two to three feet away, a pair of black and gray sneakers. 

Great, he thought. He fucked up yet again. Being too loud and disturbing someone. 

He didn't want to talk, didn't want to bother anyone, or risk fucking up anything else. Didn't want to risk the flames coming back. He couldn't just ask the person to go away though, it was rude, and would probably lead to him getting screamed at. Same as it always did back home. The person had asked him something about if he was alright, right? He took a breath to respond, though choked on another sob, and decided that he probably couldn't trust his voice at the moment. Opting to give a small, jerky nod in response. 

There was a moment of pause, as he stared at the sneakers and willed them to leave. He apparently though, had no such luck. The sneakers took a step forward, making his heart start to pound again in anxiety, curling in on himself further in a somewhat involuntary flinch.

The sneakers paused again, frozen mid-step for a moment, before slowly stepping back to their original position. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Another pause, as he hoped desperately that the person would just leave him be.

The sneakers shifted, before the person moved down into a squatting position, sitting back on their heels, and resting their hands on their knees. He could see more of them now, a pair of faded denim, bell-bottom jeans. A gray long-sleeved top, with some design on the front that he couldn't quite make out. And most notably, long, long locks of ashy black hair, flowing down their back and shoulders like some darkened waterfall, and pooling around their sneakers on the filthy concrete.  
He suddenly felt terrible about himself, that the person had gotten their hair dirty like that because of him.

"Really...?" They- he, questioned. His voice was a somewhat gravelly countertenor, almost child-like in it's tones, the 'R' spoken with the faintest of rolls, like the trill of a long buried accent bubbling up. He cleared his throat with a small cough. "You, uh... Y'don't really, look, okay..." He said, the faint traces of an accent buried under a typical, general american accent. His hands raised up slightly from his knees. "No offense! I don't mean that you look- I uh, didn't mean that to be in a MEAN way, or anything. I just meant that, um, well... People crying in alleyways isn't- doesn't really fit the um, general definition of 'okay,' usually... Again, no offense! But I just, I-I heard sobbing. When I walked by just now. And I figured I should see if everything was okay. I don't mean to intrude or anything! People say I do that a lot, but I never really notice, I really ought to work on that, I guess- point being, sorry if I'm sticking my nose where it doesn't belong, or something. But I just heard you down here, and..." His rambling trailed off, letting out a soft exhale and resting his hands back on his knees.

"Do you... need some help?"

Help? 

Did he need help? 

He gave up on the hope of 'getting help' years ago, nearly letting out a self depreciating chuckle at the thought, though the only sound that seemed able to crawl it's way out of him was small, choked sobs.

"Um... Yeah, okay, dumb question. I know. Sorry, I just um... I..." He muttered to himself, awkwardness and concern both very audible in his tone, and clearly having no idea on how to help. Help that he wasn't sure he even deserved, wanted maybe sure, but didn't deserve. 

"I have a phone! I-Is there anyone I can call, for you? Like some family, or friends, or... someone?" He asked, moving to pull what looked like a small burner phone from his pocket. No. He had no one now. No friends, no family, especially now after what just happened.

"O-Or I can call nine one one, if you need me to. Like if you're hurt or anything, you're not hurt though, are you?"

Why?

Why was this man trying so hard to help him?

He didn't deserve help. He was a stupid worthless high school dropout with no friends no job no future and the power to set things on fire apparently. He belonged in the alleyway with the rest of the garbage. He didn't need help, didn't deserve help. He'd probably just fuck things up for the man like he did for his parents. Fuck everything up for him, until he just got sick of him and having to deal with his bullcrap, and drive him to become an alcoholic that just hates his guts. Same as he did with everyone else in his life. 

"Um... You're not hurt, right?"

Why was he trying so hard? Why won't he just go away and leave him in the garbage? 

Why help him?

Why?

"Look I'm really sorry to bug but that's kind of an important question, can you please tell me if you're hurt or-"

"Why...?"

His voice was raw, coming out as a barely audible croak, though it made the man go instantly silent.

"...Uh, sorry, what was that...?" The man asked softly. Unsure whether it was because he didn't understand the question, or just plain didn't hear him, he licked his lips and took a shaky breath to repeat himself. "Why...?" He asked again, voice more of a whimper than a croak. 

"...Whyyyyy, what...?" He questioned, voice lowering and softening. 

"Why bother helping me?" 

His voice was barely a whisper, though seemed nearly deafening in the dead silence of the alleyway. Staring down at the concrete in front of him, as opposed to the pair of sneakers, the words echoed in his head. Why bother? Why fucking bother with him? In fact, why should he himself even bother anymo-

"Because you look like you could use some help." The man replied, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "If I was crying in some alley, I'd hope someone would stop and help me out. I mean. If someone needs help, you should do whatever you can to lend a hand. Y'know?" His voice was still soft, with a small lilt at the end of his question, a smile in his voice as he clearly tried to defuse the situation.

Do whatever you can, to lend a hand... 

He had spoken with such certainty, such warmth, it gave him pause. There was something about the man, about the way he spoke, the things he said, the blatant concern and affection. He felt drawn to him. Felt like he could trust him, like he could tell him everything that had happened, and everything that was wrong. Felt like reaching out for the metaphorical hand he was being offered, and letting him help.

But what could he even do?

The intrusive thought fluttered through his mind like a mosquito carrying a plague, immediately crushing all the hopes that had built up in that moment. What could the man do? Take him back to his shithole of a house that he nearly set on fire? Take him to his sisters house, so he could just go and be a useless dangerous burden there instead? Take him to a homeless shelter? No. There was nothing he could do. Nowhere he could go. The realization was completely crushing, leaving him feeling numb with horror and heartbreak. There was nothing he could do. There's nothing the man could do there's nothing he himself could do there's nothing at all whatsoever that could be done nothing nothing nothing no way to help no way at all to help him nothing could be done anymore no way to help no way-

He breathed in a sharp shuddering breath, snapped out of his anxious thoughts once again by a warmth on his cheek. He blinked, slowly coming back to himself. 

A hand was on his face. The realization hit him slower than it probably should have. The palm cupping his cheek, as a thumb gently wiped away the river of tears.

"...There's always someway to help..." The faint accent was back again, a slight trill to the R and a slight emphasis on H, and a slight crack in the voice. He found himself wondering exactly how much of his anxious panicking he had said out loud, kicking himself for breaking down that severely in front of a stranger. "I-I-I'm so-sorry..." He forced out, stammering over the words. "Shhhh..." The man soothed, thumb wiping away another stray tear. "Don't be. It's okay."

The warmth on his cheek turned into a slight pressure, the hand trying to coax his head up. The action was gentle, and he was sure that if he refused the other wouldn't force it. Wouldn't force him to look up if he didn't want to.

He lifted his head, the rim of his hood rising and allowing him to look up.

He was met with a pair of soft almond eyes, filled with unmasked worry and unasked questions, and almost seeming to shine with an ethereal glimmer for a moment. His face was somewhat long, somewhat chiseled, and all sharp angles, with a pointed chin and a thin upturned nose. Thin brows knitted together, and thin lips parted slightly in a frown, concern clear in his expression. A large lock of his hair covered most of the left side of his face from view, while the rest of his hair flowed down his back in a thick ebony mane. And, oddest of all he noticed, he wore what looked like a tiny gray top hat upon his head. The man tilted his head to side slightly, and he found himself wondering how the tiny hat stayed in place.

The mans face was like an open book, expressions clear and readable as they crossed his features. Brows knitted in concern scrunching up more into confusion, tilting his head further as he squinted his eyes in scrutiny, eyes that slowly widened in some type of realization, mouth dropping open slightly in surprise. 

"...Oh!" He simply said after a moment, apparently having made some type of discovery. "Oh." He repeated with much less enthusiasm, realizing something about his discovery maybe. "...Oh..." He repeated a third time, voice now filled with worry and... dread?

He found himself getting very uncomfortable with the others inspection and reactions, pulling his face away from the hand slightly. This seemed to snap the other out of his thoughs, as he pulled his hand away immediately. "Sorry! Sorry." He muttered, now looking more sheepish than anything else. He moved to reach a hand into his pants pocket, riffling through it for a moment before pulling something out, moving to offer it to him.

It was a small packet of tissues. Pristine and unopened. He sniffled, realizing only then how wet his hoodies collar and sleeves had gotten, from all the tears and snot. He reached out to take the packet, opening it with shaky hands and pulling out a tissue. "Th-Thank y-yo-you..." 

"No problem." The man said, sounding somewhat distant now, as through lost in thought. He turned his head to glance away, moving to rub at his neck in an awkward manner, before turning his concerned gaze back to him. "So, um... Out of curiosity, how long have you been awakened?"

He blew his nose into one of the tissues, before looking back at the man. "Wh-What d-do you m-m-mean, aw-wakend...?" He asked in confusion. How long had he been awake, maybe? Kind of a weird question to ask, did he really look that tired? After all the running and crying though he wouldn't be that surprised if he did.

The man gave a small worried grimace for a moment, as though even his expression flinched at his response. "Yeah, I was afraid of that..." He mumbled to himself, only further confusing him. Afraid of what? What did he mean by awakened? And what was with that reaction when he had been looking at him?

All these questions left his head immediately when the man scooted closer to him, anxiously moving to grip onto something, which wound up being the straps of his backpack. "Listen, if you don't wanna talk about whatever happened, that's fine. I won't pry or anything, won't call anyone if you don't want me to. But... do you think you'd maybe be up for coming with me, back to my place?" He asked, flashing him a small, warm smile. "I can get you an ice pack for your eye, a washcloth to clean up the um, th-the blood. You can stay there while you figure things out." He then reached out a hand towards him, palm up, as his smile became slightly more sad. "Please? I know it's probably kinda risky, following a complete stranger back to his home. But I promise you I'm not some psycho, or some creep that drives around in a big white van with 'free candy' spray painted on the side, or, y'know anything like that."

Despite everything, all the pain and anxiety he had gone through, he nearly chuckled at the free candy van comment. He sniffled, moving to wipe the tears out of his swollen eye, and was surprised and worried to find the tissue smeared with blood afterwards, unsure of where exactly it had come from. 

Did he want help? Did he really want to accept the metaphorical, and now literal, hand that he was being offered? Did his opinion even matter? He didn't deserve it. Couldn't do anything to repay it. Would probably just wind up screwing things up for the man in the end.

"Please." He repeated, moving his hand slightly closer. "There's always someway to help. And I wanna try to help, if you'll let me." The hand inched the slightest bit closer, fingers splayed wide. "Please..."

Suddenly, he felt more tired than anything else. Exhausted by everything that had happened, everything that was happening, and the idea of everything that was possibly about to happen. He was just left feeling tired. 

Tired of being sad.

Tired of being scared.

Absolutely sick and tired of the whole situation. 

He sniffled one more time, wiping his nose on the tissue, before stashing it in his pocket, and reaching out to take the others hand.

The smile that made it's way onto the mans face was nothing short of ecstatic, grinning nearly from ear to ear, and immediately moving to stand up and gently tug him up as well. 

"Thank you! Don't worry risky, I know it seems like a lot right now, but it'll be okay. You're gonna be okay, and I'm gonna help you out however I can with making things okay. Okay? Okay. Wow I just said okay like, seven times, didn't I? Or was it six, or... whatever. Point being, it's gonna be okay." He rambled, smiling brightly at him. 

He tried to keep up with what the other was saying, but was just immediately thrown for a loop. Firstly by the mans height, the other seeming to be somewhere between 5'10" or six feet tall, towering over his own 5'4" height. Secondly by his enthusiasm, the mans smile and tone practically radiating warmth and happiness, as he rambled on encouragements. And thirdly by the realization that he had actually accepted the others help, that he wasn't just gonna waste away in some back alley, at least for the night. 

Still reeling from everything that had happened, he barely even noticed at first that the man was still holding his hand, gently tugging and leading him out of the alley. "Don't worry, my place isn't far from here. Just about a ten minute walk, five if you run, but I don't really feel up for running right now. Doubt you do either, huh risky? It's only like a few blocks from here though, so it shouldn't take that long at all. Though one time this-"

"U-Um, it... It's Alix, a-actually..." He mumbled. The man stopped dead in his tracks, turning to look over his shoulder at him in surprise. He immediately worried that the other would get mad at him, for interrupting his rambling, though the wide smile the man shot him quickly washed away the fear. He turned completely back around, tightening his grip slightly on his hand and giving it a firm shake.

"Nice to meet'cha Alix! Name's Panic. But you can just call me Pan if ya want, everyone else does."

He would later reflect on the irony of it all. Of a man named Panic saving him from one of the most anxious times in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> This whole chapter is one big vent tbh, and I'm just as emotionally exhausted as Alix after writing it...


End file.
